Doom 2099UG #5

It was nearly midday, but across the warm seas of the Indian Ocean, a swirling cyclone of rain-laden clouds was slowly blotting out the light from the sun. Strong winds blew the deep blue of the ocean into peaks of silvery white caps. The vast ocean that surrounded the island of Myridia turned suddenly dark and cold. Waves crashed against the stone fortified breakwaters surrounding the capital city of Chenaya, their deep ocean-borne energy passing through that craggy barrier to jostle ancient sailing vessels and sleek modern hovercraft anchored in her protected harbor. Wind-blown leaves and debris danced through the deserted streets of this modern island nation, crashing against the mirrored glass windows in fitful gusts. A single tightly cowled figure ran fleetingly between tall buildings. The remainder of the residents had all fled inside, seeking shelter from the coming storm.

Inside the central control building, a storm of a different sort was escalating. Hundreds of desperate men and women were fighting valiantly against a hidden enemy that threatened to destroy their very livelihood. Information was the commodity that Myridia brokered, and her once formidable database had been invaded by a corporate marauder known to them only as the Neon Angel. Fast on the heels of the Angel, scores of independent net gliders had sensed that the Myridian fortress had been cracked. Myridian cybersecurity team forces had charged into the breach, bravely fighting to stem the surge of leaking data that was being sucked out of her bit by bit by the bloodthirsty vultures. Meanwhile, the Angel was maliciously playing havoc with their systems, evading all efforts at eradication, playing with the security system that had been, up to that point, the envy of all cybervaults, like she was playing the flute. She danced through walls via invisible shunts, unleashed her wicked havoc, then disappeared, taunting them every step of the way, and all the while waiting. Waiting for her true nemesis to enter the fray.

Orchestrating the efforts of cyberwarriors, net gliders, and security specialists, were the four Master Programmers, or MP's, hovering above the massive floor on a floating platform 65 feet above a honeycomb network of computer cubicles and power stations. The MP's each monitored a section of the workers on the floor below, networking with their team leaders via laser light beams that crisscrossed the room in a complex, multicolored web of instantaneous communication and billion bit per second data exchange. The MP's efforts in turn were being monitored by a giant of a man, an armored figure that sat upon a throne-like chair above them at the center of the platform. Doom had only recently revealed himself as the new leader of this proud and independent Nation, having quietly succeeded General Czerny several months past. Now they all knew who the true power here was, and if there was any resentment in the minds or hearts of the Myridian people, they dared not show it. Instead his every gesture was follow ed, and his every word obeyed without question. The reputation of the masked despot in the verdant cape had indeed preceded him, for there was no bit of data present on the planet that had not at one time passed through Myridia.

Doom silently stepped down from his elevated throne and walked towards MP #1, carefully scrutinizing a hand held data processor as he walked. Although they continued their work, the MP's snatched nervous glances at the silently pacing monarch in their midst. Doom appeared not to notice, but he saw everything that was occurring around him, and it only added to his mounting anger. He cursed at himself for not having examined Myridia's security systems closer upon his arrival. He had assumed from their reputation and his previous experience that those defenses could not be breached, and that deadly assumption may now have sounded the death knell for this prosperous nation. It was certainly the goal of the Neon Angel, whom he also knew as the evil Margaretta Von Geisterstadt, that if she could not kill him outright, as she had attempted to do by trapping him in the cybernetic hell of his dying Latveria [see Doom UG #4 / #40], that she would destroy his financial and physical base of operations. The crux o f this senseless mayhem was one petty woman's revenge for having been scorned! He leaned heavily over MP #1's control board. Even now, with his Empire slowly crumbling, he still refused to play her games.

"Fortify the relays at sector seven," he instructed dispassionately. "The static pulse at the backup field for 29 is clearly a diversionary tactic. Strengthen the data grids at the remote outposts for 12Z9 and prepare for manned extraction."

"Yes, my Lord," MP #1 answered as he obediently relayed the instructions.

Doom looked out over the crowded floor below him, stepping fearlessly to the edge of the high platform. He had also failed to assess the war readiness of this operation. He scoffed at their lack of mechanization. Despite the advances of the last hundred years, mankind had too often balked at totally eliminating the human element from their systems. He made a mental note to automate more of these security and back-up procedures once this situation was rectified. Below him, technicians worked frantically to maintain power systems being disrupted by the combination of the storm outside and the incessant manipulations of the Neon Angel. If her intent was to create panic, she was surely succeeding. It had been decades since the Myridian envirofield platforms had failed to contain and turn back nature's fury, and for many of the workers below it was the first time they had ever seen a storm this close. The lights flickered as a distant thunderbolt streaked silently through the dark skies. The booming thu nder that followed soon after shook the windows high above. Doom's severe countenance deepened as some of the workers stopped their labors to gaze at the lashing of the wind outside. These Myridians were compliant enough for now, but they weren't Latverians, and many would need to learn that Doom was a far greater fury than any cyclone that Nature could deliver. They would soon know that his word was the Law here now. He would not be surprised if one or more of these milling minions could have been in league with the Neon Angel, since her initial attack had been so swift and so decisive. He clenched his jaw tightly. First his trusted Fortune, and now this. This treachery was becoming a trend that he was determined to end!

"Number Four!" he yelled angrily as he turned back to the control board. "Lock down that bypass system relay! Pay attention, dolt!"

MP #4, the youngest of the Programmers, had also been distracted by the storm. "Y- Yes, Master," he said nervously as he focused back on his control grid, feeling his insides bind in a sinewy knot at the unwanted attention from the menacingly pacing figure in their midst.

"The Neon Angel will use every resource in her power to destroy us!," Doom lectured solemnly. "If you cannot perform your duties with vigilance you will be replaced!"

MP #4 felt the sweat on his brow as Doom stood close behind him, but he did not look back nor move his eyes a fraction from the systems he was monitoring. He sighed ever so quietly as he finally sensed Doom moving away from him. Another crack of thunder close overhead caused him to cringe involuntarily, but this time he did not look up. He had learned his lesson.

MP #1 stepped close, auspiciously to check a related system monitor. "Don't worry," the older man whispered comfortingly. "It'll be all right."

Doom continued to analyze the information on his hand held microwave receiver, and he did not look up as he paced thoughtfully along the edge of the enormous floating platform. The Myridians working below gazed up to see him there, as the flashes of lightning cast his shadow over them all.

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In the depths of cyberspace, far away and removed from the storm in the real world, cybersoldiers were fearlessly battling marauding net gliders who had driven opportunistically into the many breaches in the Myridian security shield left by the Neon Angel. Some were there for the valuable information to be gained, others just for the sheer thrill of the glide. But as soon as their presence was detected, squadrons of Myridia's own cybernet warriors tracked them down, booting them off the system as their archetypes were disintegrated with weapons that mimicked those used by their real world counterparts. Many of these hackers would "wake-up" offline with a nasty post deresolution headache, but some of them used sophisticated reintegration programs which moments later had them back into the fray, playing the game over and over with a seemingly endless supply of "lives". For the Myridian warriors, it was a desperate battle that was wearing them down. Somehow those breaches would have to be sealed!

On the edges of one such battlefield, a lone figure stopped momentarily, drawn by a nearly insatiable curiosity. He was tall and handsome, long light brown hair neatly tied back and nearly concealed beneath a wide brim hat. His trade mark trench coat hung loosely from his broad shoulders. His sharp blue eyes took in the battle before him with a critical understanding. Duke Stratosphere knew all about this massive strike being launched against the Myridian database. He had heard the first flurries of action and sensed the resulting feeding frenzy long before it had become the celebrated coup of the moment for a thousand wanna-be cyberjockeys. He had avoided it like the plague. Far too high profile, and as such too risky for someone like he who's reputation was already made. Still, the maelstrom of net activity was a convenient cover for a particularly satisfying hack that he had been planning for months. Having made good his escape and obscured his tracks within the nexus of net activity, something i n the fury before him made him pause.

"Curiosity," he told himself as he hovered silently in the shadows of a cybernetic bridge, "killed the cat." He knew that he should just leave now. No sense getting involved, his intuition warned. Once this was over, Myridia would no longer be a major player on the world board, he could see no way out of it now. Their systems were too badly compromised, their information monopoly was doomed. He watched as a small squadron of Myridian soldiers valiantly fought back an enormous tide of oddly organized net marauders. The attack of the net gliders was uncharacteristically choreographed, and a viral bomb was launched that caught one of the defenders off-guard. The poor soldier's archetype was enveloped by a particularly nasty form of derezzing that would probably cause the human it represented to spew chunks for the next three days.

Duke cringed. "That's gotta hurt," he said to himself with a slight smile, knowing that his own anti-viral programming would spare him such a nasty fate. The other Myridian soldiers lost precious minutes containing the virus before it spread to other systems. Duke shook his head sadly, and he half turned to leave. . .and then he saw the markings on their uniforms. That symbol, a golden stylized D on a green shield, was one he'd seen before. It was the badge worn by the soldiers of Doom! He paused. This was a different situation altogether, perhaps worth investigating. Doom was a man around whom big things happened. This Duke had learned first hand when he first encountered the archetypes of Doom and the net glider Wire. Besides, Duke weakly justified to himself, what harm could come from just watching? Even as he thought it, he knew that whatever happened, he was already in too deep.

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Ephraim Cvijanovic paced quickly through the crowded honeycomb of workers that had mobbed the main floor of Central Programming. He carried two cups of steaming liquid, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief as he slipped into the Sector 3 Corps dive-unit 12 post, grateful for having made his way through the maze without spilling any. He laid the cup with the tea bag still steeped in the hot water at an empty desk, and then moved over a few stations to deliver the second cup. He paused in front of the cyberstation for a moment, staring unselfconsciously at the woman who lay there. He no longer felt the stinging pangs of voyeuristic guilt for watching her. It was his job to monitor them, after all. That's what he told himself he would say, if anyone ever asked.

Lying blissfully unaware of the havoc around her, was a startlingly beautiful young woman. Her eyes were closed, as if asleep. The calm expression on her face betrayed none of the emotional and physical anguish which she was now experiencing. But the EEG display next to her head showed otherwise. The fury of her brain wave patterns confirmed that she was deeply involved in a cyberspace mission. She was a net glider, and she and her three companions in the cyberbooths beside her were flying through cyberspace on a surreal adventure that Ephraim could never imagine and would never attempt to duplicate. He was too old, he told himself, and. . .afraid. Some people just weren't made for that kind of out-of-body experience, he rationalized weakly. Besides, his work in the real world was just as valuable, if not nearly as glamorous. He placed the coffee beside her work station. She would need it when she off-lined, he reasoned to himself, all the while knowing that she was far too young and spirited to eve r see anything in him other than a friendly coworker. They were from two different worlds, cast together by mere happenstance. He gazed at her face for a moment longer, and then quickly returned to his workstation.

"Hey, Ephraim, where's my bagel?"

One of the net gliders in his group had just off-lined, and was apparently none the worse for the wear. Ephraim cringed, but returned silently to his desk, wiping the remains of rain water from his mostly bare head with a clean white handkerchief as he sat down. He ignored the taunt and subsequent laughter, and attempted to concentrate on his duties, but the damage had already been done.

"Hey Ephraim, if you wanted to fly, Ed has a great holovid to practice on. . .almost as good as flying the 'net!" Another net glider was laughing at him, referring to his recent encounter with nanite disintegration during the collapse of the Point (see Doom 2099 UG #4 (#40)).

"Shock no, Mahlon," Ed replied, "Ephraim can't enter the zone without his mommy's permission!"

"Hey, errand-boy," another one chimed in, "I heard you had to change your pants!" That comment brought another peal of laughter from the other young men. Ephraim grimaced, putting on a strained good-natured front, his eyes still locked on his board.
"That's okay, Justin," Mahlon answered, "'cause now he's Doom's personal footstool!"

"Yeah," Justin joked acidly, "he's been promoted from being the MP's personal rug to walk all over!"

Ephraim sighed. "He saved my life," was all he said. But the quiet comment was lost in the loud commotion as the young men continued to boisterously joke among themselves. They were just burning excess energy that built up from spending such a strenuous trip through the 'net, he reasoned.

"Shut up, you guys," a female voice piped in.

Ephraim felt his heart sink. How much had she heard? He looked up to see her facing him, quietly sipping at the warm brew.

"Thanks for the coffee, Ephraim," she said kindly. She turned to her net companions, and shot them a fierce look. "You guys were pathetic out there," she criticized. "Take your break and make it quick. We're diving again in twenty!"

Outside of her presence the other gliders would smirk and call her "The Commander" in sarcastic tones. But in truth she did hold seniority over all of them, and her skill and natural leadership in the 'net was unchallenged. That is, except by Justin Malinovsky, the young hot head who fancied himself as the slickest glider this side of the Duke. Justin was good and he knew it, and certain that he could go freelance any time, he was constantly pushing the limits of those in charge. So far it had worked, for he was too valuable for the MP's to kick out of the Corps.

"Gimme a break, Elisabeth," he whined. "We've been down for six hours this shift alone. Let Bruskies' crew handle it!"

"Bruskies' crew is pulling double shifts, too," Elisabeth countered calmly as she made notes in her mission log. She had worked with Justin long enough to know how to not let him get to her. "Nobody's going anywhere until the MP's call all clear." She looked at Ephraim for confirmation. "Isn't that right, Ephraim?"

Ephraim flushed slightly and reached for his handkerchief, but answered in a calm voice, "That was what I understood."

"You've just wasted five minutes of your break time arguing about it, Justin," Elisabeth added coolly.

Justin wisely held his tongue as he hustled out of the unit station, but he bumped Ephraim's chair roughly as he passed. "Wise up, loverboy," he whispered hatefully. "You can be everybody's yes-man but you're a shockin' bithead if you think anybody really cares what a spud like you thinks! Vid this man, you ain't gonna fly if'n you can't take the dive! So keep your flarkin' trap shut!"

Ephraim watched the brash young man go, but said nothing. Ephraim tried to avoid any confrontational situations, even if it meant swallowing what little remained of his pride. He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped his bald head.

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The MP's on the high platform were feeling more and more the bitter urgency of their fate. Their efforts to turn back the tide had stalled, and they were locked in a frail holding pattern against the Neon Angel. Doom was not pleased.

Doom leaned over one console and muttered, "She's taunting us, daring me to enter cyberspace and come after her personally."

Overhearing, MP #3 offered, "We can set up a cyber terminal here for you sir," he said helpfully. "If you want, sir."

"No," Doom answered, almost angrily. "Not. . .yet." He referred again to his hand-held databoard. He mused for a moment. "Number One, I want you to use a cold boot at relay 9 to close the breach at that juncture. That will isolate the power systems for the entire sector."

"Master," MP #1 informed delicately, "we've got two squads of security gliders in there, they'll be trapped. If they can't return to safe cyberspace, they'll be vegetables. . ."

"Hmm," Doom knew this of course, and was weighing the value of attempting to extricate their troops over the cost of alerting Margaretta to his plans. He decided to compromise. "Send them a coded message. Give them two minutes to retreat. Discreetly, Number One, two minutes is all I can give!"

"Yes, Master."

Doom paced slowly past MP #1 as he carried out his orders, and surveyed the lighted world board with the keen eye of a veteran combat general. "Number 3," Doom continued, his eyes still fixed on the world map before him. "Cut off all communications with the east coast. Shut down the power grids at 45Bravo through Gamma point six. Isolate those taps, I want all subsystems dead and cold. Set up a containment field at junctures alpha 96 and 98."

"What?!" MP #3 referred to his board. "You can't do that! That's crazy! The entire east coast of Africa will be without power! In this storm, that's a death sentence for hundreds of people!"

Doom said nothing as he looked over his shoulder at the nearly hysterical programmer. The data processor in his right hand was crushed by an almost involuntary spasm as the metal gauntlet closed into a tight fist. Tiny shards of green plastic pieces rained delicately onto the floor.

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Duke Stratosphere watched in awed silence as the battlefield before him began to dissolve. Slowly at first, then more rapidly as the combatant's frenzied fighting reached a crescendo. Some of the Myridian cybercorps had slipped out a back door, but many others remained as the back door slowly shrank to an impassable dimension, sealing behind them with a soundless metallic finality. Desperate, the cybersoldiers who remained initiated a deresolution program on their own archetypes, hopeful that the data bits that formed their consciousness would escape through tiny side streams into the real world. For some, it might work, for others, the pulsating spasms of their archetype bodies, floating transparent above the ruined cyberfield, indicated that their program was flawed. Death would be a kinder fate than this infinite non-existence.

The net marauders who had attacked this outpost began to realize that fate may also soon be theirs, and so they too activated their personal retrieval programs. One or two, less well prepared, found themselves stranded on a rapidly diminishing data island. One tried to jump for it, only to fall into the black abyss that opened up around him, swallowing his flailing archetype like Jonah in the great Biblical whale. The second suffered no better a fate, holding on until at last there was nothing more to hold onto before falling into infinity. Somewhere in the real world, their real bodies would fall into a coma that would only end when their flesh finally died.

When there was no one left at all, Duke finally emerged from the shadows. He casually tossed a problem bomb into the battlefield, and suddenly the data stream solidified. The deresolution stopped, and form and structure returned as the bomb retrieved the deleted data from the mists of cyberreality. It was a temporary fix, and he kept an eye on the countdown display as the problem program slowly wound down. It would give him just enough time to look around. Fearlessly he stepped onto the now empty battlefield.

The cyberspace where this battle had taken place was represented by an old village, surrounded by high stone walls. The half shattered buildings were held up by crumbling gray rock walls. Shattered windows and ancient wooden doors hanging from broken frames reminded him of old photos from war-torn Europe a half century ago. Cobblestone streets were older even than that. Duke, however, did not recognize this place. That was no surprise, since it could represent anything from someplace real, or a fantasy place, to a programmer's game field or a scene from a storybook. It was almost medieval in appearance, and Duke had a cold sense of dislocation, of being out of place here. He could not fathom it. The portal through which the cybersoldiers had fled was sealed tight, there was no sense in trying to pursue that avenue. There wasn't enough time, anyway. Duke eyed the program countdown warily. It would be really rookie if he got trapped here.

Duke wandered through the empty streets with an apparent ease, but his eyes were diligently combing every corner for a clue. There had to be something of value here, something that the Neon Angel wanted. Something too that Doom was willing to sacrifice a dozen soldiers just to make sure no one else got their hands on it. But if this ancient city held some valuable secret, could he find it in time? The village had also been the site of a battle, not unlike the one he had just witnessed. He came upon the first dead bodies quite by surprise, half buried under the crumbled remains of a stone wall. Then he began to see more. Some were in a uniform that he could not place, others in a strange silvery armor. Again he had the sense that this was not just a game sim, that this had been real. But the bodies were just the relic memory left in a small part of an enormously complex program.

He crossed an open courtyard past a large fountain. He was running out of time. If there were something hidden here, it could be anywhere. If he could resurrect one of the soldiers, they might be able to tell him something. One of the armored soldiers had collapsed by the fountain. He examined the body, but it was too far gone. With more time, maybe. . .he straightened up, and placed his foot on the edge of the fountain, leaning on his knee as he looked around one last time. It was no use, he thought. . .then he saw it.

Hidden within the still waters of the fountain was a small black box, jammed into a crack between the marble statues, and barely visible beneath the surface of the water. But it was so out of place there, so unusual, that it instantly captured his attention. Could it be of value? There was no way of knowing, but he wasn't going to leave without it. Trusting his instincts, he reached for it. It was stuck. He pulled harder, but it wouldn't budge. He eyed his time clock. . .almost up. He had to hurry. He lifted a short metal pike from underneath the dead soldier's body, and wedged it in the crack behind the box. Levering on the pike with his body weight, the box finally broke free as Duke tripped backwards and landed on his rear in the stone courtyard. As he pushed himself up to stand, his hand went through the once solid body of the dead soldier!

"Uh oh. . ." he said slowly to himself, "time's up!"

He grabbed the black box and stuffed it into his coat pocket without even looking at it. Running now, his long legs covering great distances with each stride, he headed for the stone bridge. He looked back to see the town disappearing behind him, and a great dissolving emptiness that was catching up to him! He hurdled a low stone wall and whistled as he broke into the open field. "Chaos!" he yelled. "Get over here!"

The cybernetic horse, his programmed steed-of-speed, appeared instantly on the bridge. It was programmed to respond to his commands, but he had also given it an intelligence matrix equivalent to a real horse, with an innate self- preservation initiation program. Chaos balked at jumping down from the bridge into the empty cyberspace that had opened up below it.

Duke saw the problem as he ran. Ten feet of empty space, the same black hole that had swallowed up the two net gliders previously, now separated him from the bridge. The bridge was, for the moment, solid. He didn't slow down his run, and didn't look back. The space was getting wider! Approaching the edge at a dead run, he leaped, hurtling his archetype into the void!

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Ephraim had already programmed the dive coordinates into the cybernet matrix, and was monitoring the other net activity in his program unit with only half his consciousness. This was no greater challenge than programming a holovid recorder. Capable and efficient, but socially awkward, Ephraim had been passed over for promotion so many times he had lost count. He didn't even care anymore, actually. Convinced that this was as good as it would ever get, he had accepted his lot in life. He was content now to watch the young dive leader, Elisabeth Lamiere, with her long dark hair and high cheekbones, an exotic beauty who captivated all around her with her easy grace. He watched her whenever he could, whenever he knew that she could not see him. He was watching her now, with a dreamy fascination bordering on obsessive. The world around him melted away, the noise and commotion of the central programming floor was a distant universe across an infinite void. He studied the back of her neck, the way her thick , wavy hair bunched at the brightly colored ribbon she tied it with. The curve of her jaw where it met her long, thin neck. The dark space behind her ear where one small slot, a tiny cyberport, was neatly hidden. The bounce of her hair as she moved her head, moved suddenly up from her board, then turned to face Ephraim, and just as quickly to turn away, looking up and pointing.

It was then that Ephraim snapped out of his dreamy trance and heard the screams of terror and sudden dismay as people all around him were standing at their stations, pointing and looking up into the sky. Elisabeth's slender hand went slowly to her mouth. Something plastic and metallic behind him dropped with a crash, but nobody turned to see what it was. Everybody's attention was focused up. Ephraim slowly raised his eyes, and saw at last the source of their anxiety.

Three stories up, Doom stood at the very edge of the MP's floating platform. His green cape caught the gentle updraft that swirled around the hovering citadel and billowed softly behind him. His silvery armor reflected the pulsing laser light beams that exited the platform from below and crisscrossed the enormous hall 60 feet above the stunned work force. Extended away from his body at arm's length and dangling precariously over the edge, was the body of one of the Master Programmers. From his vantage point, Ephraim could tell that it was MP #3. Doom was holding him there, gripping the wretched man's throat in one vicelike metal hand. The MP was still alive, seized by that formidable grasp, fighting to keep his airway open as he struggled to hold on to that massive arm for fear of falling. His legs kicked wildly, as his eyes bulged with mortal terror. His captor was immobile, as silent and utterly fearsome as a medieval stone gargoyle on a castle ledge.

"Oh my god, Ephraim," Elisabeth whispered quietly beside him. "What's going to happen?"

Ephraim shrugged, then turned ever so slightly to notice how close she was standing to him now. His heart leapt into his throat. He looked up again at the violent drama above. If Doom dropped the MP, he would be dead before he hit the ground, cut to ribbons by the intersecting lasers above them. Ephraim knew from personal experience that their new ruler could just as easily snap the man's neck in that powerful grip. Everybody there was watching.

Doom eyed the struggling MP with malicious intent. Then he saw what was happening below him, and his scowl grew larger. Thinking that the fearsome mask was directed solely at him, MP #3's eyes began to roll back into his head.

"By my ancestors . . .!" Doom cursed between clenched teeth. He carefully weighed his options, then stepped away from the edge of the platform. Angered by this unsettling turn of events, he threw the limp form of the Programmer back into the work station where the body skidded along the floor and crashed into a display panel. The former MP #3 clutched his head and cowered there in the corner, uncertain as to what had spared him from imminent death, and equally unsure as to whether that was a better fate. Doom ignored him and leaned again out over the edge of the platform.

"Tell them to get back to work," he ordered brusquely. "NOW, Number One!"

"Yes, Master," MP #1 answered quickly, immediately relaying the instructions to his station commanders.

Doom had been unprepared for their reaction to this public display of power. It was too early to assert himself in such an unsympathetic manner. Once this crisis was averted however, then they would understand the depth of his commitment. He turned back to the cowering programmer and gestured to security, "Take him away," he said. "Make sure you escort him through the hall."

"But that's out of the way, my lord," one of the guards said sheepishly.

Doom's fierce eyes locked on him wordlessly.

"Y - yes, Master," the guard quickly answered. "As you say, sir."

"Number One, we need a replacement programmer," Doom ordered dispassionately.

"Yes, Master," MP #1 replied, "I'm working on it now."

Doom eyed the work floor below with narrow eyed suspicion. "Bring up Ephraim Cvijanovic," he demanded suddenly. "I want him at Number Three."

"Uh, sir, pardon me saying," MP #1 started slowly, "but there are better candidates for the position. . ."

"I've read his profile, Number One," Doom responded calmly, "are you saying he's incapable of performing the work?"

"No sir," MP #1 replied, not sure how far he should take this.

"Then get him up here" was Doom's curt reply.

"Yes, sir."

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"Pull, Chaos! Back boy, back!"

Duke Stratosphere was holding on by his fingernails. His desperate leap had taken him to the top ledge of the stone bridge. He had managed to catch hold of the low stone wall that bordered the bridge, but his feet were left dangling over the abyss. His loyal steed Chaos had approached close enough for him to grab a swinging rein with one hand. Obeying his voice, the horse program pulled mightily backwards, dragging Duke up and onto the bridge, and out of the jaws of oblivion. As soon as Duke was secure on solid ground, he checked his pocket. Despite the rough treatment, the mysterious black box was still there. He mounted up quickly, there was no time to examine it now. He urged Chaos toward a safe link, leaping deftly away from the all-encompassing white-out that was consuming this corner of cyberspace. Duke turned back and smiled slyly, amazed once more at his uncanny luck.

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Ephraim could hardly believe his luck. He had watched with the others in disbelief as a cuffed and muzzled MP #3 was escorted out of the building by the burly security guards. Whispers of "Traitor" and "Treachery" and "Conspiracy" followed in his wake, with further whispers about how formidable Doom must be. The fear and horror at seeing the Programmer dangling by the throat above them, had been deftly replaced by a newfound awe and respect. Almost immediately thereafter, Ephraim was summoned to the Master Programmer's platform. He could not imagine, what would the MP's want him for now?

He still didn't believe it, even when they handed him the Programmer's head set and sat him down at the console. He half expected someone to ask him to go get them some coffee. Instead, someone else brought him a fresh cup of tea. He ran his hand along the shiny edge of the monitoring station, the long rows of blinking lights and displays lighted his face with an almost childlike delight. If he craned his neck ever so slightly to the right, he could look down from the high platform and see the Sector 3 unit where he had worked virtually unnoticed for nearly fifteen long years. He tried to see Elisabeth and the others. Even though he knew that they would be insanely jealous (especially young Justin), he missed them already. He sent Elisabeth a quick message, just to let her know he was really there. Doom was back there, just behind him in the shadows of his new throne. He felt a strange and compelling gratitude to that enigmatic armored king of the gypsies. King of Myridia, now, he reminded himself.

Then there was a flurry of activity, and he was suddenly having to really concentrate on his work. There would be no more time for daydreaming.

The storm outside continued to lash the island nation, and the Neon Angel had yet to give up her torment of their slowly recovering systems. On the high windows directly above them, the MP's could see the wind driven rain that penetrated the darkness outside. There came a fierce banging suddenly against the windows above, echoing loudly throughout the large hall. Something big up there had broken loose, and was banging as the wind drove it against glass. Ephraim looked up instinctively, and his face went white.

"Security, get someone up there to clear that out!" MP #1 ordered angrily. "The Master has a conference call from the South African Counsel in five minutes!"

The security guard looked up at the high windows apprehensively, his fear evident. No one really wanted to go out there on the roof in this storm. The guard looked up into the inky blackness, clearly thinking that if he waited long enough, maybe the wind would knock whatever it was up there loose.

The incessant banging continued. Behind them, Doom was lost in some deep study.

Ephraim stood up. "Number One, I'll go," he offered with uncharacteristic assertiveness.

"Ephraim. . .I mean, Number Three," MP #1 stated calmly, "that's not necessary." As if on cue, the banging got louder.

"I've been up there before," Ephraim added, "and I think I know what it is. It won't take but a minute."

It seemed as if the noise would never stop. MP #1 relented. "Very well," he sighed, "make it quick!"

"Yes, sir," Ephraim replied, and ran to the lift, so anxious to fix the problem that he forgot to remove his cyberspace headset as he left.

Every boy has got to have a hobby, he remembered his mother had told him as he rode the lift to the roof. Pigeons weren't much of a hobby for a boy of the twenty-first century, but it kept his mother happy that he was doing something, and it kept him away from the bullies that constantly tormented him on the streets below his apartment. Years later when they had built the new Central Programming building, they had included a roof top platform for the air handling equipment that was a perfect location for his growing coop. Ephraim Cvijanovic had surreptitiously moved his pigeon coop to that high and desolate aerie. Now one of the doors had broken loose, and jammed into a short metal upright it was banging with each gust of wind onto the slanted windows high above the central hall. Ephraim closed his coat and ducked his head against the force of the driving rain as he stepped onto the recessed notch in the slanted roof. His secret had been safe among the few others that dared to frequent this rooftop ha ven. Now that he was an MP, Ephraim realized that it would be exceedingly poor form to have the pigeon coop discovered by building security.

"Odin's beard!" Ephraim exclaimed softly to himself as he assessed the situation. The broken door was caught on a metal post, and from the platform's edge he couldn't reach it. He lifted himself up onto the slanted glass and braced his right foot against a raised block. He tried not to think of the edge of the building and the long drop to the ground should he fall. He grabbed a short metal upright at the edge of the window with his left hand, and pulled himself slowly across the window glass. The rain pelted his face, stinging his eyes mercilessly. Maybe he should have let security handle this, he thought, choking suddenly on his fear.

"No," he told himself, "you can do this. It's right there. Just get it!"

His left leg dangled just above the sanctuary of the platform, balancing his weight precariously as his toe pushed off from that level landing. Spread- eagle across the tall glass windows, he focused on his goal, just beyond his right hand. He reached tentatively for the wood and wire door. His fingers touched the edge of the wood, just as the wind pushed it farther away. He stretched again, sliding dangerously across the glass. He barely held on to the wood frame with his fingertips. He could see the Programmers below him, and far below that the entire floor of the great hall. It seemed somehow surreal from this perspective. Doom had just walked out onto the platform, and was activating the holovid communications link. Ephraim looked back to the door, his fingers just scarcely keeping it from rattling against the glass. The wind whipped furiously at his sides and he reached just a little further. Finally! He grasped the frame firmly!

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Doom was addressing the South African Counsel by means of a holovid. The ancient ministers, wizened white men with white hair and unnatural complexions, were obviously infuriated by the power outages that Doom had ordered in an attempt to combat the Neon Angel. The breakdown of systems that were reliant on Myridian information management had left them isolated and insecure, relying for the first time in decades on their own resources. Bottom line, it was costing them money. They didn't like that.

"This is an outrage, Doom!" one of the particularly livid men was saying. "We demand you return us to full capacity immediately!"

"Quite right," another said with a thick accent. "This storm has all of us at it's mercy. There is no power for the hospitals except for emergency generators, no heat, no uplinks available, the water is no longer safe, and looters are beginning to prowl our cities. This is completely unacceptable!"

Doom crossed his arms in undisguised contempt. "Your ancestors of a hundred years past were far better equipped to manage the vagaries of the natural world than you seem to be. If you're cold, I suggest that you reference a text on how to build a fire. Your power will be returned when I decide that the time is right!"

"Of all the . . ."

The conversation was suddenly interrupted by a brilliant flash of light, followed immediately by a penetrating crack of thunder that shook the building with it's thunderous waves of sound. The lights went dark again for a moment, then flickered back on.

"Lightning . . ." someone said in the hushed darkness.

"That was close!"

"Doom? Are you there? What the bloody hell is going on there?!" the voice of the minister crackled in the darkness.

Doom looked around him, unfazed by the close strike as he directed his staff to maintain the holovid connection. The picture returned, fuzzy at first, then clearer. "We are experiencing some of the same weather that has caused you so much concern, Minister," he explained. "As you can see, it has not paralyzed our efforts here as it seems to have. . . yours. . .what the . . .?"

"Master," MP #1 stood up, and was staring at the video display with slack- jawed disbelief. "Is that. . ? How could that be. . .? Ephraim. . .?"

"Who is this man?" one of the Ministers stood up and was backing away from a man who had appeared suddenly behind them. "Guards! Get this man out of here!"

"Oh, my goodness, I'm terribly sorry," Ephraim stuttered and backed away, bumping into another of the dignitaries.

"Now see here young man," the elder statesman was saying as he reached out to push him away. "Ow!" he exclaimed suddenly and pulled his hand rapidly away. His hand turned red, blistering before his eyes.

"Oh, excuse me," Ephraim stated. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to. . ." He was confused, he wasn't sure where he was. His jacket was smoking slightly, and burning hot as the South African dignitary had discovered. He looked towards the vid display, where he saw Doom and the other MP's. How had he got there? "Master?" he said quietly

"Ephraim, what has happened? Speak up, man!" Doom ordered forcefully.

"I don't rightly know," Ephraim stated, now sitting at his chair at the Programmer's station. Doom whirled around to face him in studied awe. The South Africans were up in arms again, accusing Doom of having sent an otherworldly spy. But the spy was no longer there, he was here. Doom slammed a fist into the communications control, instantly terminating the connection.

"I was on the roof. . .there was a flash of light, and then I was in that strange room." Ephraim spoke slowly. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. "Now I'm here, and I don't feel quite right." He placed the piece of cloth on his console, and as soon as he let go of it, it began to disintegrate, floating away into two dimensional bits of focused light. He was fascinated, and, very afraid. He grabbed for it quickly, and it reintegrated instantly in his hand. He looked at the cloth as if for the first time. It seemed solid enough.

In a flash he was gone again.

Elisabeth and her crew had already re-entered cyberspace, and were busy manipulating a new barrier program over one of the shield barriers when Ephraim appeared on the other side.

Edward was the first to see him. "Hey, look who's here! Call your programmer, EC, you're on the wrong side of the shield!"

Justin looked up with surprise. "Ephraim doesn't surf . . .?"

"Elisabeth, I need your help . . ." Ephraim said anxiously.

"Ephraim, what are you doing here?" Elisabeth cautiously approached the shield. His archetype was strange, glowing with a silvery light and energy she had never seen before. "You're disoriented is all, the first time will do that. Just off-line, you'll be fine."

"How'd he get this deep his first time?" Mahlon asked suspiciously.

"I can't off-line. . .I'm here, really, I mean . . ."

"Don't touch the shield, Ephraim, you'll deres !" Elisabeth warned, but too late. She watched in wonder as he passed through the shield, unaffected.

"You see, I'm real," Ephraim said, "at least, I think I am."

"But that's impossible . . ."

Then he was gone. . .

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. . .traveling the laser light beams of communication circuits until he once again stood in front of Doom and the other MP's, an instant after he'd disappeared.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Ephraim stated dizzily, collapsing in his chair.

Doom quickly put it together. He approached Ephraim slowly, analyzing the shimmering waves of energy he could pick up through his armor's sensors. The instant he disappeared they had tracked him, following his energy signature as it covered vast stretches of limitless space in a fraction of a second. Ephraim had traveled instantaneously through the communication lines. Not his archetype--him! Much as one would send an archetype through cyberspace, only he had done it with his body. And his body had appeared at the other end, seemingly as solid as he was now. The possibilities began to click off rapidly inside Doom's brain.

Ephraim too, began to put it together. The heat he felt inside was the residual energy of a bolt of natural energy that should have fried him to a crisp. Connected to the metallic satellite uplink he had held on to, and directed by the cyberlink headset he still wore, he had somehow been transformed. He could feel it in his skin, it wasn't quite skin, anymore. Somehow the enormous energies of the storm outside had changed him into something other than human. He had become, the Elemental!

"Ephraim, you have just become the world's greatest living hyperlink!" Doom stated slowly. "Congratulations. You have just learned how to fly!"

Ephraim looked up at the armored ruler in amazement. "Oh, my."

        "Our Torments also may in length of Time,
                Become our Elements."
                    Milton's Paradise Lost



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